let's sing-fight (and get it over with)

2010-03-09T10:35:00.001-08:00

tumblr is the new blogspot.

and just because i'm a laggard, doesn't mean i'm beyond trying.

come with me? it would be a terrific bore without you there.

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

2010-03-06T12:28:00.000-08:00

my, oh my. it's been quite a long stint since we've talked. and now i have an ache in my left elbow, like i get when i haven't seen a friend in a long while . . .

i just thought if i did "that" i couldn't do "this." because this would take me away from that. but i'm back to doing a little of this and a little of that, because as it turns out that without this is so two dimensional.

and speaking of dimensions, i saw alice in wonderland last night! the critics are all kind of in a foul mood about the movie--turning tomatos into ketchup and griping because tim burton and johnny depp are so classically themselves and don't venture too far outside of the box.

but as far as i can tell, if you're tim burton or johnny depp you're already so far outside of the box to begin with that even an inch farther and you've lost us. (which the illustrious jj abrams has already taken care of on tuesday nights at eight pm central standard. and oh dear, have i just gone and mixed my reviews now? LOST bleeds into most thoughts these day.)

it's true i wasn't completely unbiased during alice and wonderland. being that it was my first 3D and all, i was practically drooling before the previews were over. still, i found the whole thing to be visually alarming and thought provoking. i was downright tickled by the new take on this familiar story.

it's about a girl (an alice) who is coming into her own, or perhaps uncoming into her own.

see, a fundamental question is being raised throughout wonderland: "is this the real alice? the one that was here before?" and everyone is kind of hoping it is, because that alice was the truest and bravest version of herself. and this alice seems to have lost herself in the process of growing up, and now she's quite unrecognizable to all of her wonder-friends.

and though there are dozens of charms i could pull from the Burton/Woolverton script, i particularly love the line delivered by the mad hatter when he begins to reflect on the child alice vs. the grown one:

"You were much more muchier the first time around" he tells her. "You've lost your muchness."

it sort of reminds me of a chart my roommate and i had in college to *blush* determine if we thought a guy was the one or whatever.

and at the top of the chart, above love even, was the category of "more." and if you "mored" someone it meant of course that you planned to marry him. it meant he was more than all the others who you might just easily love--as if just loving someone were easy, ha! (but what can i say, i was eighteen)

the point is, more was mystical.

a different dimension entirely.

a place of believing.

and dear friends, lately i worry i haven't been muchness or moreness of thisness or thatness.

and isn't it all so easy to lose our moreness and muchness with thatness and thisness . . . when we forget to wonder?

the exodus

2010-02-04T12:46:00.000-08:00

this week i drove a little down and a lot over.

and once i reached a little down and a lot over, i stopped my stationwagon, whispered the Jesus Prayer, and wondered here?

here.

so now, God willing, i'm going to find a roof and some friends who will have supper with me under that roof.

so now, God willing, i'm going to hear the most beautiful music in this place a little down and a lot over.

Exodus 33:14-16

The Lord replied, "My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest."

Then Moses said to him, "If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?"

morning commutes

2010-01-24T21:28:00.000-08:00

hey mom,

remember that year you taught me how to be an editor?

remember the time we sat in the parking lot at church's chicken and laughed until we couldn't breathe anymore?

remember how the love seat was just the perfect size for two Perry endings? (or neverendings in our case *wink)

remember when you wouldn't let me give up on music? paid my way to california and said you were my biggest fan?

remember how with us it's just so easy, like best friends?

i'm gonna miss the cuss outta you when i leave.

thanks for taking me in this year. it was perfect, i suppose.

like the way God's gifts always are.

lately i've been thinking about praying

2009-12-29T09:38:00.000-08:00

lately i've been thinking that nancy drew could kick the clever out of sherlock holmes. but instead of stealing his cases and solving his crimes, she reminds him to put on a cardigan before leaving the house so that he won't catch cold.

lately i've been thinking that orange juice should always be mixed with sparkling water.

lately i've been thinking that kansas city is like a kiss on the third date; it dawns on me that i'm smitten, but won't be accepting date number four.

lately i've been thinking about what i will do when i have no job (in one week) and i figure it will involve acting wrecklessly; that's all i can tell you.

lately i've been thinking that i should fix my slightly crooked left tooth, even if that won't fix anything else.

lately i've been thinking that house slippers are a far superior species to heels and i don't doubt that the world's most meaningful work has been done while wearing them.

lately i've been thinking about praying.

lately i've been thinking that peacocks are quickly becoming my favorite of the birdies.

lately i've been thinking about what it would like to be a bad ass orthodox Jew-turned scholarly Christian theologian, and it's random i know, but i'm half way through lauren winner's memoir and reading has become a way for me to live vicariously a hundred times over.

lately i've been thinking that its been a long time since i threw a snowball and meant it.

lately i've been thinking (and will now positively assert) that the MIXX has the best sugar cookies known to man and monster . . . and i only add the monster bit as a nostalgic shout out to the terribly great one who lived off of sesame street and taught me what it meant to have a sweet tooth around the age of 4.

lately i've been thinking that anyone can own an iphone, but that it's really something special to own one with a busted screen.

lately i've been thinking about telling you my secret--that when i say "do not follow me" it means "follow me," (but only if you want to).

italian fine dining

2009-12-22T20:06:00.000-08:00

sure there is enough pie to go around. and just because you get a slice doesn't mean that i get less than a slice. it's just a different slice. same size. fair pie.

but it's not the pie i'm concerned with. i wouldn't bat an eyelash over the pie.

it's the freaking chocolate molten cake that keeps me awake at night. how do i know there will there be enough for me . . . if you have some too?

so there you have it,

jealousy is my tragic flaw.

jealousy in the form chocolate molten cake,

kind of like they serve at olive garden,

because i'm classy like that.

i suppose i'll need a southern soul sister

2009-12-18T11:46:00.000-08:00

flannery o'connor will do just fine.

"you shall know the truth and the truth shall make you odd."

don't worry, but do find me

2009-12-16T14:47:00.000-08:00

for every crisis there is a measure of coping.

and because i'm going to be encountering some climate change in the next month (a move)

i've been living in a personal copenhagen of sorts--making me seem nothing like me. and i'm not every saying "me" is best, but at least it's me. and that's familiar to others and puts them at ease so that they can be them. if you're following all this stuff that non-me is saying.

i think some human beings probably have really lovely coping habits--like maybe they pick a new nail polish color for every day of the week, or organize their desk drawers so that the ball point pens are separate from the no. 2 pencils and the files have reached alphabetical glory. some folks are downright unselfish looking in the middle of crisis, picking up projects and making themselves charitable and all.

and i wish that i was one of those. but my "dealing withs" always take me to quite another place. and i can't actually tell you where that place is cause i'm new to the territory and it's still unmapped. but i do know it's a place where cell phone service drops. and facebook pages are abandoned. and blogs are left unwritten. and songs aren't created. and bookshelves get dusty. and dear friends are proven. and for most certain, all of my no 2's remain mixed up with my ball points.

but i think it's the place God and i have to go to talk about all this terribly unusual weather.

I almost didn't believe this year

2009-12-09T19:15:00.000-08:00

Dear Editor—
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O’Hanlon

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

fact:

2009-12-03T16:03:00.000-08:00

everything you ever wanted to know you can find on urban dictionary.

standing at the crux, just nodding my head like yeah.

2009-11-10T19:12:00.000-08:00

tomorrow,

you are my orange door.

though i wish every decision in life was painted so brightly.

(or that my vision wasn't so shaded by new hipster sunglasses that i only bought because urban outfitters was having a $10 sale and and not because they are cool or vogue or anything considering i'm above all that. mostly.)

a woman of few words

2009-11-03T13:28:00.000-08:00

what i'm saying: carol burnett has gone mute

what i mean: my car radio broke. and its just a long trek out to the suburbs without any radio or fall playlist pumping out of my speakers. sometimes i can even hear my thoughts; that's the scariest part if you wanna know.

what i'm saying: i miss going to the movies

what i mean: if you cuddled with someone through the film capitalism is a love story then you probably really liked that person; i mean, michael moore is about as romantic as a frying pan. and speaking of food . . .

what i'm saying: i'm not supposed to have caffeine or dairy anymore

what i mean: i will continue to have caffeine and dairy till the cows come home. if you're on a desert island and they (the pirates who put you there?) are only giving you one food, you should definitely say milk because its the "perfect food" in the sense that you can survive off it and still have strong bones and such. and i know i'm not on a desert island, but i'm choosing milk. and not that soy crap. although my vegan sister seems to like it well enough.

what i'm saying: jcrew has some awfully cute cardigans

what i mean: jcrew has some awfully cute cardigans

what i'm saying: my best friend lives in costa rica

what i mean: why does my best friend have to live in costa rica? normal best friends live a block away, maybe a state at most. but mine had to go off and get married to a darling latin american man. i'm flying down for her wedding cause that's what you do when you have a best friend. you fly down for her catholic wedding and you salsa dance like your life depends on it. even when you're terrible at the salsa and the cha-cha-slide and pretty much every other dance except the baby got back song. for some reason you know how to dance to that one.

what i'm saying: i have 641 unread news blurbs in my inbox

what i mean: i'm deleting my whole newsfeed. i mean, we all want to save the world. but sometimes the most important news is what's going on within 30 feet. making someone potato soup when they're flu-ish. or telling someone you like their dress when they seem insecure. and no one can save the world due to the restriction of time and space and anyway there's no use getting redundant when its already been taken care of in God's eyes, but you can always make life a skosh better for one person. and save their world a little.

what i'm saying: have mercy

what i mean: Jesus' name is the only one that makes sense to me when it comes to this plea

best costume goes to . . . the corn on the cob (kyle bonar)

2009-11-02T05:58:00.000-08:00

i was liz lemon. then a judo warrior. then liz lemon the judo warrior.

and truth be told, all i really wanted to be was balloon boy's sister--balloon girl. and that way i could float up to a place where candy corn cakes and michael jackson playlists and zombie barbies would never find me.

and i know it makes me old and all, but i'm going to spend the next three hundred and sixty four days planning ways to never have to dress up for halloween again.

shades

2009-10-26T16:34:00.000-07:00

today is monday. like your average monday, only things began going wrong instantly.

and things are supposed to kind of foul up on mondays. for instance, getting dressed really fast in the dark because you overslept and then finding out midday that you are wearing navy blue tights by accident and not black, like you meant to.

fair crisis. not going to shake anybody's world up too much unless for some bizarro reason the whole foods store is giving out grocery samples to everyone on the basis that their outfit is matching.

then perhaps navy blue tights and black flats would be a real deal breaker.

i'm all about grocery store samples. apart from the time and energy of it. for some reason i feel it necessary to spend at least 18 seconds making noises that represent my delight with the sample. mmmmmm. guuuuuuud. oooohhh yeah. *this part is real stretched out and dramatic* and then another 14 seconds verbally debating a purchase of the product. only $12 for this organic goat cheese! what a steal. but i shouldn't when i have a whole stash (box) of cheese (velveeta) at home. so tempting though--next time.

when all i'm really thinking the whole time is, what a waste of toothpicks when i could have used my hands. and i wish the samples weren't so small. and maybe they wouldn't notice if i came back around a second time.

of course they would notice, i'm wearing navy blue tights and black flats--i'm practically a circus.

today was monday. and besides all that nonsense about my outfit being off, my car decided it didn't feel much like starting. which meant that i was at the office an extra three hours waiting for my parents to pick me up kind of like i was in junior high school.

and i honestly haven't thought about junior high school more than five times since i left it. not that it was bad, only it wasn't really anything. just a bunch of mulling around the hallways not thinking. no one told you how to think at that point in your life. just how to work a locker combination in nothing flat and how to apply blue shimmer eyeshadow beyond reason. some girls had moms who wouldn't let them wear eyeshadow and so maybe they inched by with some reasoning skills. one can never know.

and as i was sitting in the office waiting for my parents (thinking about all the nonthought of my adolescence) i decided to pass the time with a book--catcher in the rye. most people are assigned this in ninth grade english class but for some reason we read scarlet letter probably because it had less cussing.

anyway its my second jd salinger in a row.

i get on kicks.

and after all that reading up, you sorta get nosy about the author and want to find out why they're so brilliant. like if they grew up eating wheaties while the rest of us amateurs unconsciously dabbled in bowls of fruity pebbles--mere child's play.

its purely speculation whether or not he was a breakfast champion, but my wiki-research did conclude that mr. salinger had the whole creative disposition thing going for him. meaning he was kind of reclusive and aloof when it all came down to it. same thing i recently found out about charles schulz, the peanuts guy, and about a million other artists and poets.

and sure, you sort of excuse that behavior when a person dreams up a character like charlie brown or writes a book that most people are assigned in ninth grade english class.

but what about the behavior of the rest of us? what about our navy blue tights? and our shimmer eye shadow? and our sugar cereal? and why can't we be weird too?

updated from my mobile 3 minutes ago

2009-10-20T16:33:00.001-07:00

you might have noticed the recent onslaught of short blogs as of late.

i blame it on twitter.

its natural to blame things on twitter, because everything is twitter's fault.

my ever shortening attention span?

140 chrcters r less iz all u g0t w/ m3 so btter mak it gud.

the fact that i've recently quit my job and find myself looking for a 2 bedroom apt in nashville?

just doing the birdie thing and flying south for the winter.

the swine flu outbreak?

i mean, last year it was the bird flu. but now the birds are busy with other things. mainly, delivering our messages kind of like the united states post office except on time.

and for that matter, the world's financial crisis?

twitter. we're the over-capacity page where the little birds (us) try to lift the whale (wall street) and take him back to his whale family (rich people we don't know). . . twitter is all subliminally ruining our lives.

plus this little thing called the human condition. where we all want to be known and followed and famously adored. where we feel the need to perpetute the late breaking, the relevant, the fashionable, the ironic, the linked, the inked and the epic.

in order that we might secure a spot in the nest.

no one wanted that before internet came into existence.

so, ummmmm, down with twitter.

except will you follow me first? (liz likes this *thumb up*)

i'll tell you where the wild things are not . . .

2009-10-19T13:07:00.000-07:00

i am so going to be a volkswagen mini-van mom

2009-10-16T14:02:00.000-07:00

even if my kids are just a collection of rare hybrid ferns.

pardon my vanity

2009-10-14T18:05:00.001-07:00

but if i want to pour myself a cup of instant self-deprecation, i need to look no further than the satorialist blogspot.

which i do. almost daily.

i wonder if this is how kmart feels when she looks at saks fifth avenue...

in my defense, some of my cardigans don't have holes in them.

i've been such a sap on here lately

2009-10-13T10:16:00.000-07:00

i promise my estrogens will snap out of it soon enough.

the other days too

2009-10-11T09:35:00.000-07:00

today is a coffee shop off Londonberry Road, in a cold cold state up north

today is fighting back tears that form for no good reason, and for every good reason

today is my pulpit Bible on the table beside me, and begging for the mytho-poetic i encountered when i was a child

today is not newspapers or reporters or radios; today is only news that unfolds within 30 feet of me

today is orange juice and proof that the world is getting smaller; oranges in cold cold state up north! seems hardly sustainable, this luxury world

today is permission to be shy, granted by me

today is the Church's confession; we are wrong, we are wrong, we are wrong, we are loved (?)

today is a bunch of nerve firings and amino acids and frantic oxygen molecules, which will make it possible for me to be human; and thus responsible to be humane

today is not jealous of saturday, and not aware of monday

today these locks will grow just a quarter of a centimeter; today is endorsing all of my most dreadful nervous habits--how bloody unbecoming to go around smelling my own hair!

today is turning a corner and believing something is around it; prophets and poets call this hope

today is shuffling along the same God-damned redemptive road; prophets and poets call this endurance

today is getting on a plane which will take me home to a slightly less cold state somewhere in the middle . . .

where my community has already gathered. in an old sanctuary. releasing new stories. about what God is up to. through mike crawford hymns and nervous guest speakers and rowdy benedictions and meet n' greets and sunday brunch--make it orange juices all around!

only i'm not there, because i'm in a cold cold state up north

and it all seems to be foreshadowing a time when i'm not there any more (please see last post)

to this end, today is intensely nostalgic, emphatically unsure,

yet somehow still good.

cause today is Sunday

and God owns Sunday.

Lord i believe, but help my unbelief.

2009-10-05T18:29:00.000-07:00

a note from the editor (in retirement)

i took my coffee cup home. the one with the "E" on it in fancy cursive.

E is for Elizabeth. and Editor.

and E is also for Economy. a bad one. the type of economy that has really high unemployment rates. the type of economy you shouldn't quit your job in. (unless your a complete ninny, or me)

never used that coffee cup with the E on it. it's what you call an office "looking piece" cause its curvitures aren't conducive for mug hugging.

i hope you mug hug.

took my coffee cup home because i knew it was time to start packing things up. one by one.

when you've packed things up as often as i, well, you just become more expert at knowing.

E is for Expert. at knowing. but somehow not expert at caring less.

maybe tomorrow i’ll take my lamp. that way if i botch it good on my last manuscript and it's full of editorial ~~oversites~~ oversights, i can blame it on the the terrible work conditions--no lights!

how peculiar to leave something sure (even if its wrong) for something unsure (even though its right).

one time i met a boy who had been through a similar dilemma. he up and quit a limelight job for the humble world of academia.

i told him it was like a star 400 runner switching to the lowly long jump. cause no one ever watches the long jumpers. they might as well go for pizza during a track meet since no one would notice they were gone except the guy who rakes the sand.

that was the lamest analogy of my life. and its no small wonder he found saucier metaphors elsewhere. (have you found saucier metaphors elsewhere?)

but i’m just jumping around now. thematically--and athletically--speaking.

the point i have so persistently gotten away from is that i took my coffee cup home.

and that deserves nothing short of a sob.

because God gave me the best job in the world, next to doing the thing i was made to do.

and now that he’s asking me to do the thing i was made to do, well i’m just a little timid (scared out of my freaking wits) that’s all.

chicago manual style edition no. 15,

i dream in orange because of you.

you were a goulash of grammar and spelling and citations. just the things that can make me blush on spot.

but i should sing a new song to the Lord.

i'll now be looking for gloves that stay attached to my jacket

2009-09-19T16:55:00.000-07:00

a note from the (seasoned) editor

i'm all talking on my cellular with Summer--not a reference to this year's indie chick flick--and we're all "yeah girl this and yeah girl that" when i notice that someone is clicking in. and i have to be all "hold up Summer, i gotta see who's on the the other line." and she's all "rude" and i'm all, "i know but this is the 21st century, and i'm in high demand" and she's all "go ahead psssh."

i don't let her 'tude bother me.

so i click over, only to find it's Fall on the other line. (also i'm now aware i could have simply checked the caller id, but that's purely hindsight)

and i mean, i know there's not supposed to be a hierarchy of friends or whatev.

but there, like, is.

and if Summer is my BFF, and Fall is like my second or third string. Fall is who i call if there's a trippin party and Summer's parents grounded her and Spring is out with her new boyfriend or something. i mean, i can't very well make an appearance by myself, right? such bad press.

anyway, i've gotten away from the point at hand.

which is call waiting.

my gut is telling me i have to say ciao to Summer and begin a new conversation with Fall. but then again my gut frequently tells me to go for that fourth chocolate chip pancake, when i clearly have overindulged on one, two and three.

regardless.

Fall, my dear(only tolerable) friend,

lets talk.

but if i may offer a few conditions:

1. you must allow me a few more days to roll my windows down in the volvowagon

2. you must give hipsters reasons to wear their scarves again. not that they ever stopped.

3. you must stop asking me if i want a pumpkin spice latte when i roll through starbucks. i don't.

4. you must find me some procrastinating trees--ones hold onto their leaves until the last possible second.

5. you must provide an alternative to turkey for this years thanksgiving feast. won't even be picky about it, just as long as it doesn't come with the options of light or dark, stuffed or not, breast or thigh.

6. you must paint new realities with spices. and colors. and scents. and songs. and wind. and friends. and worship. and silence.

7. you must be cold enough that people have a reason to huddle together

8. but not too cold that people would stay indoors, tucked away

9. you must be yourself, Fall. but if you are looking to dress the part of another, i urge you in the way of Summer and not in the way of Winter.

more demands to come as i stumble upon them.

grandpa drinks so much milk the doc said he's got bones of a 27 year old

2009-09-18T06:28:00.000-07:00

a note from the editor (hereafter, bessie).

this just in.

"Norway's dairy farmers have discovered how to make cows more productive: Give them mattresses. It turns out that comfy cows give about 5 percent more milk. . . .[while] lounging on softer surfaces."

two thoughts come to mind.

1. norway sounds nice.

2. i bet if i slept all day i would be 5 percent better in my role as a human being. maybe i'll try this out. in a norwegian context.

i've always suspected europeans were ~~funner~~ smarter.

what they call the journey

2009-08-27T14:45:00.000-07:00

A note from the editor (and habitual member of boarding group C)

Flying to California to see if people other than my mom like my music.

Feeling a little shy, like I'm too young to fly alone. Even though I always fly alone. Me and my carry-on going here, there, and everywhere.

This time it's different. LA has eaten folks wiser and more melodic than myself.

And although I'm in no rush (we're currently sitting on the runway. delayed.) I must go now. Texting an entire blog is, like, serious work. And besides, it sounds like they are going to need me to fix the plane real quick.

P.S. I love when I sit by a random person on a flight, and then find out they go to my church. Jim Gu, I guess you've made it so I don't have to fly alone after all. Wanna talk til we reach Denver?

it's a good day when carrie dobin runs my phone battery out. a very good day i'd say.

2009-08-22T11:48:00.000-07:00

a note from the editor (and eternal resident of Williams Hall 330)

who are these williams and sonoma characters?

2009-08-21T06:47:00.000-07:00

a note from the editor (and apparent fruit connoisseur)

it's not so much the ant parade in my kitchen that keeps me from cooking, though the pest problem is disheartening. as far as culinary intelligence is concerned, i'm just a few ingredients shy of a casserole, thats all.

my friends dote on their kitchenaids--saying how this one single mixer brought peace upon their countertop countries. but unless they are talking about a literal kitchen aid, like a living breathing martha stewart, well i fear there's nothing to be done. even so, martha stewart is not known for being the cuddliest of all homemakers. yeesh. i'd trust the fuzzy feelings of george foreman and his handy grill over stewart any day.

well, all of this domestic despair means one thing. mainly, that i'm on a first name basis with every restaurant owner in the midtown district.

which is fine. except that my bank account often reprimands me for the costly effects of eating every meal out. (she has, like, such an attitude problem, that account of mine. always turning shades of red when i spend a smidgen more than i've got.)

and that's why i've recently begun attempting this whole grocery shopping-dining in thing.

for instance. yesterday, with only my wits about me, i battled the brookside market. and won.

how do i know i was victorious? because i was told so at the checkout line, by the gentleman standing in front of me.

man: [eyeing my purchases] wow, looks like you're going healthy. that's awesome.

me: [nervous laugh] yeah, i fake myself out. i'll probably go dine out instead of eat this stuff.

man: can you believe those grapes. good, huh?

me: yeah, those grapes. whew.

man: i eat pretty healthy, if i do say so myself and . . .

me: lets eat grapes together forever.

that last part was a lie. i really just wanted to say "paper or plastic" and end the awkward exchange before it lead to something far more serious, like avacados.

oh the life of a newly forming chef is a hard one. full of coupons and checkout lines and choices.

and speaking of choices. the brilliant malcolm gladwell has a ted talk on the varieties of spaghetti sauce and what is says about our psychological make-up. please enjoy. and then come over to my house and cook me some delightful.

you. me. and the ant colony. we'll call it a party.

my cardinal points, lets take a walk

2009-08-17T11:54:00.000-07:00

a note from the editor (and sorely nostalgic)

I miss above scene. and seeing lg this weekend made me scour notes for an old essay:

The winds came in the night and we didn't have time to say the proper goodbyes or grab the old blanket that knew how to wrap us up. In every mind, the question raised: "I last left him … where?" But no one recalls. When the winds came we scattered in every different direction. East. West. North. And South. Our new names. So that we knew the storm must have come down on our house with a furious purpose.

The winds came in the night and we didn't have time to say the proper goodbyes or grab the old blanket that knew how to wrap us up. He is on my mind. And the four strong were scattered in every different direction. East. West. North. And South. And we thought, for the first time, that the map-makers were wrong to make enemies of us. That maybe the North could still sip tea with the East. And that together the South and West would listen to Hendrix on a striped sofa somewhere. Because we had always done it that way.

But when the winds came, there was no tea, no sentimental slide-show, no parting song and no words. We drank coffee by the gallons and inhaled deeply to see smoke and traded Ray for British pop because we wanted to scream. Cause you feel like you are losing your mind when the wind comes.

We were all things bitter. We were all things grateful. We were all things unprepared. We were all things unwrapped.

The winds came in the night and we ignored the signs in the day. After all, No one still watches the Chicago weather. Predictable, strong breezes.

The winds came in the night and we didn't have time to say the proper goodbyes or grab the old blanket that knew how to wrap us up.

Time was our perpetual storm, realized. And when we grow tired of looking back at what was, we will look forward to what is.

meet me in . . .

2009-08-16T14:07:00.000-07:00

a note from the editor (and pilgrim)

plans are silly things meant to keep our minds and our hearts from stasis. we ought not put to much stock in them, for they will be changed soon enough. and that for glory.

anyway, my church went on pilgrimage this weekend. i mean, we’re always kind of on pilgrimage. traipsing through our lives together. moving. moving. always moving towards the state of Zion. (which is not one of the fifty, to the dismay of many imperialists)

but once a year, for the members of jacob’s well, pilgrimage takes on tangible manifestations. a few days at a campground complete with worship. tug of war. baptisms. narrative. and hamburgers with soggy buns—why is it someone always assumes that buns need baptism too?

i had planned on going. but like i said, plans are walls, sometimes meant to be torn down. in the best sort of berlin way.

and that’s how we know that God is particular. proximal. saving us from even our best intentions.

in retrospect, it was probably good that i forgot to sign up for pilgrimage. and that when i did remember, i couldn't take in on financially.

there were some things i couldn’t foresee (including but not restricted to: a lack of tent gear that might shelter me from the saturday’s monsoon. a disposition rendered “off” by the weeks events. and lastly, an unexpected pilgrimage of my own to meet my best friend—lindsey—and her fiancée—andres—before their departure to latin america)

st. louis was such a dish for providing us lunch and conversation and drinks and the arch and laughs and hand holding and the city museum. and perhaps most importantly—confirmation.

confirmation that my dear girl is happy. and that she has found and been found by “a good one.”

forgot to mention that andres is costa rican. and in my attempt to meet him on his level, i dropped the only spanish word i could think of . . .leche.

ummm, translation, milk.

andres is lactose intolerant. so the conversation pretty much ended there.

no worries. among other brilliant talents, the boy is trilingual. so when i asked andres how he knows lindsey is the one for him, his response was to translate a costa rican phrase “we are aiming for the same north.”

and out of his words came an amendment to my stance on plans. maybe they aren’t all that bad. granted we shouldn't hold on to them too tightly. but maybe plans bring us together. maybe you aim North and you pilgrimage toward it. and at one point, you look around to see who is beside you. and at one point, the people beside you are all that you can see.

so that when the globe tilts, and your GPS runs out of battery, and you spill coffee on your map, and you can’t find true North

well, just look down and see who is holding your hand. singing the benediction beside you.

"my friends may you grow in grace and in the knowledge of our Lord and Savior"

i missed you all this weekend.

Les Paul (June 9, 1915–August 13, 2009)

2009-08-14T08:27:00.000-07:00

a note from the editor (in mourning):

for a man of licks, trills and fretting.

les paul died yesterday, august thirteen. he made guitars for a living and then played them at jazz clubs real late at night--those hours designated for new lovers and the rougher crowds.

we didn't get to see him play, cause you didn't feel romantic and when we tried to act rough, we just choked on our drags.

such a shame we never made it to a show, could've met the man.

"I never go to my dressing room," said Paul. "I go right off that stage and I go over and talk to 'em at the bar, at the tables. I think the most important thing to do is to get out there and do what you were put on this Earth to do. And I know mine was to love the guitar and play it and to be with other people."

les paul, you were all invention and art . . . i'm sure mary ford understood why it couldn't be.

you were electric.

First Friday of my life

2009-08-08T09:16:00.000-07:00

A note from the editor (and performing artist)

European techno beats (interposed with kanye west) will never fail to send synchronized nerve impulses to my feet.

dance.
dance.
dance.
dance.
dance.
dance.
dance.

Thank you ever so kindly, max justus, for bringing your dj to kansas city.

QT and epiphany

2009-08-03T10:05:00.000-07:00

there have been a lot of suicides at quicktrip lately.

i've been an unfortunate witness to it.

i stand in line, waiting patiently for my $.49 dr. pepper darling and watch as others proceed to drive off the carbonation cliff: sprite. mountain dew. pepsi. rootbeer. lipton ice tea. strawberry gatorade. ooops. not enough pepsi.

all in one poor, overstimulated cup.

and what, may i ask, does a suicide even taste like? everything? nothing?

don't know, i've never dabbled much in dangerous drinking habits . . . coffee being the delightful exception.

but as i further ponder my life on tap, i'll admit i've come to resemble this this flavor/ful/less drink:

well rounded. a contributer to society. multi-faceted. balanced and even keeled. conversant to a point. musically versatile. a pinch of this. and a dash of that. understanding. read-up. everything, everything, everything, and nothing really.

so what gives?

cause i wasn't created to be so tame. so normal.

what must i do to obtain this coffee?

2009-07-16T11:39:00.000-07:00

i <3 whallops. i <3 whallops. i really do <3 whallops.

the cellist of sarajevo

2009-07-15T06:37:00.000-07:00

when you are one of four siblings there are certain things you should expect.

bunk beds until your 18 for instance. higher percentage chances of being called out for irrational claims. mini-van transport. matching holiday attire. a few less pictures in your baby album. and a ridiculous amount of adventure, delight, and affection to tuck away in the part of your heart that forgets to age.

you. and you. and me. and you. makes four. four corners to our little world of E 130th.

now the youngest me(me) and you(joanna) were always getting into trouble. mainly because our parents thought me and you should live together in one room until we were old enough to do serious damage. they vastly underestimated what this age might be.

so me -being a progressive problem solver- and you -being a lobbyer for equal rights- tried actively to pursue peace and justice in our land. ahem, room.

which lead to various catostrophes and a morsel or two of brilliance:

one of the latter of which was the invention of the sing-fight.

me and you conferenced one day over mac and cheese garnished with hot dog slices and decided that we were losing our lust for fighting. that we no longer favored the joy that can be argumentation. and yet, what were our options? to give it up without a fight (so to speak)? "not on mr. roger's life!" we vowed between bites.

and that's when 7-year old me and you decided to endorse the arts by singing out our disputes. a disfunctional musical of sorts. stage, you ask? (well you didn't. but don't mind if i tell you) an antique white dresser, that was in no way stable enough for two. thus we practiced diplomacy and took turns singing down our insults from the white platform.

reminds me now of congress. without the harmonies.

thing about it is, me and you could never sing that long before we were repentant, reconciled, or at the very least laughing with glee. (which doesn't remind me of congress)

makes me wonder if we were on to something. maybe instead of purchasing 40percent of the world's weaponry, our country could buy a few choir robes. maybe liberals and conservatives are just altos and sopranos in the same eric whitacre chorus. maybe each of us could be the man in sarajevo who plays his cello on the street for 22 days in the middle of a war zone, as a message of hope. maybe our foreign dignitaries could hire voice coach instead of speech writers. after all, i hear hillary clinton is the vocal equivalent of beyonce or perhaps the whole desiny's child (?)

what i mean to say is that maybe we're all just lacking a white dresser.

if we are going to go around letting little things come between us, we should probably just sing-fight and get it over with.

we will pick up where we left off

2009-07-14T06:22:00.000-07:00

dear blag,

i apologize for my absence.

a slew of events have taken me from your ever loving care.

there is a large vacuum in my soul, where your internets once were. a hoover upright of sadness.

there, there. the worst of our separation is over.

once again you shall have your words. and i shall have my blag.

love your bosom friend (if you'll still have me?)

lizzy

wi-fly

2009-06-09T06:01:00.000-07:00

ooo00hhh, got to thinking that my title might be a great marketing witticism to sell to Southwest airlines... apparently Jack Blumenstein thought the same thing when he coined the phrase over two years ago and made millions (says search engine google).

i'm such a laggard in the way of innovation. always close, but no cigar.

to each his own. Mr. Blumenstein, i applaud you.

anyway dears, i'm sorry to report that nashville airport doesn't have wi-fly. instead they've employed a wi-would-we-give-you-free-internet-when-we-could-charge-you service. but they say it with a southern accent, so it doesn't make you mad for some reason. bless their hearts.

spent the past weekend meeting up with a couple of my best friends from school, a world-traveling hippie and a lovely professor couple (plus their four little woman)

let me just say, that when Costa Rica (Lindsey Gant) and Nashville (Weedman clan) and Kansas City (me) all sit together on a back porch, the world is the perfect size...

miles become inches. and continents can sit on the same green couch.

despite a year apart from my friends, things fell right into place. like we didn’t skip a beat.

but as i got to thinking of it longer, i realized that we had in fact skipped a beat. several of em. cause if life is a sort of soundtrack, then i certainly have no clue where the pause button is. must be a defect in my machinery. (that happens on the assembly line sometimes.)

all that to say, twelve months has meant approximately

one kansas city library card. a five song EP (in the works). a new favorite coffee mug. a return to family. an antique obsession. four home addresses. new found respect for southwest. brown locks. two jobs. an affair with the chicago manual of style. pentecost. a secret blog with cohorts. the redwoods. six roommates. new jams. crumpled receipts from american apparel. thomas merton devotional. communion with friends. large phone bills. a batter of idealism and realism. the Church. a few must reads. and consequently my first pair of spectacles. porch sitting. some cantankerous behavior. some sacred space. joy at what is. and hope and what will be.

and though friends, you were not with me. you were with me.

hey green couch,
thanks for seating us all.

when summer exhales

2009-06-02T10:17:00.001-07:00

it would do you good to inhale.

ello. this is me on the porch of my work. you can't see my right eye, but i assure you its there.

never thought of myself as an outdoorsy girl. that thought is rather laughable. see, i have an emphatic disdain for small insectuals that drink my blood as a lunch time smoothie. futher evidence of my domestication is that i never plan on taking a honeymoon in the appalachians. and do not currently own a nalgene water bottle to match every northface jacket i own.

still, something happens to my imagination when i'm allowed to sit on a porch. something glorious wakes up when i can smell rain or feel a sunburn on the tip of my nose. something starts burning in me when i sit in the grass ( literally, i'm allergic.)

when i witness the natural creation, i get heavier--ontologically speaking. more real. and i begin to wonder.

some smarties once told me that the garden of eden was like one big green house. and that instead of precipitation, the air was so moist and the ozone so unbreached, that everything stayed warm and watered. like a humid holiday-inn.

they said that after man decided to like apples more than God, the earth started breaking.

so from what i gather, winter equals death. the evidence of our sin. something i've always intrinsically and physically felt.

and that's why someday, when i've been entirely sanctified, you may find me in san diego california. because everyone knows that california is the closest thing to the garden of eden. temperature and otherwise.

for proof of this, one needs to look no further than their elected leader, the terminator. hmmmm...

ADDENDUM

2009-05-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

i feel like i need to address the elephant in the room. but not because he's big, rather because it's nice to address any guest even if you feel like they are causing a stink.

in my previous post i said something to the effect of,

"what if i become distracted during a bingo game? and when they call A27, i miss the prize?"

well, actually that was verbatim, not just something to the effect of.

my one loyal subscriber, bonnie perry, both with a gracious and mocking tone pointed out that B-I-N-G-O has no A of which could be called.

she then gave me a nice Bible story about how God loves all of the letters the same, even if they weren't invited in the game.

thanks bon.

so it is, that now i feel i should publish an addendum for my foolish error on the last publication.

i didn't mean to say i was playing BINGO, I meant to say i was playing BANGO.

it's a more postmodern version of BINGO, for the emergents and the existentialists. (i'm throwing out every big word i know here)

in BANGO it's not only normative, it's practically a sure bet that "A" will be called.

still, i apologize if i left you, the reader, confused by my last post. you're welcome to my next game night of course. BANGO and YAHTZOO and MINIPOLY are always a hit with the young crowd.

grown-ups don't need night lights and never get scared

2009-05-24T12:24:00.000-07:00

what if there are glass ceilings in each of life's proverbial rooms? and when i try to climb up, i get no where? and the smell of windex becomes unbearable?

what if i become distracted during a bingo game? and when they call A27, i miss the prize?

what if i spill strawberry jelly on the pages of the calendar? making june and july stick to the back of august, so that summer disappears?

what if there are monsters all around? and in the night i mistake a human for one, and act cruelly?

what if they think i'm a monster?

what if the honey bees really go extinct? and in their rush to leave, they forget to pollenate my favorite fruits?

what if my crayon box gets passed down to my children? and when they open it up, they find some shades of eggplant, bluegrey, and olive green rather than razzmatazz, electric lime, and hot magenta?

what if they discontinue hammocks for two? and we spend the rest of our lives swinging alone, scheduling our leisure separately?

and further, what if i can't see the prophets? what if clorox bleach changes its scent? what if analogy and metaphor make off? what if i'm still scared in the darkness? what if i never love like that again?

night lights are for children.

girl sits on globe. till globe starts to spin.

2009-05-18T09:44:00.000-07:00

falling off the map may include:

slight bruising

20 voicemails

168 unchecked gmails

severed relationships with all social networks

and a longing for friends too far, far away.

yes, so far that's been accurate.

life of li

2009-05-12T20:58:00.000-07:00

written words are meant to reflect thought, right?

well, yes. but only if one can complete their thoughts. lead the reader somewhere. include an intro, three main points, and a real satisfying conclusion.

cause some english teacher, at the dawn of time, decided that written words ought to belong to a cohesive theme called a paragraph. (i forgive her on the principal that no good decisions are made at dawn when the mind is still fuzzy and the coffee is not yet poured)

i expect if you climbed a few stairs into the recesses of my mind you'd find an eclectic and insecure group of nerve firings that don't belong to any logical paragraph. if it's easier for you, think of it in these terms. the recesses of elementary school are full of socially awkward children being rejected by the cool kidz (for instance, if you are really "in," you know to use z in the place of s).

that's what my thoughts are these days. misfitting. unorganized. rejected.

here is to today without paragraphs.

let's begin, shall we dears?

can't close the window in my room, it's broken. but the fresh air and i are getting on fine, and i would have it no other way.

just like the character in life of pi, i want to shorten my name. but life of li doesn't have the same ring. also sounds like i have an honesty problem.

found out the "this american life" is based out of chicago. just one more reason to set up shop in lincoln park.

i wonder how regina spektor can write one of the most powerful God songs, "laughing with," while i stumble about creating diddies about boats and boys. two things which sail in and out of ports with frequency.

i feel like bantering with someone these days. without twitter.

ma said that me moving out is the "end of an era." good era's shouldn't end. unless followed up with very good era's. hello, very good. is that you at my door, door, door?

repeating words doesn't make a sentence charming.

i once had a fine pen pal named ruben. but letters don't give bear hugs and play with your hair when you're tuckered out. he was the best writer-friend, but i was tuckered out.

been wondering about pentecost this year. there are a lot of us in the upper room in need of breath and Spirit. also hipsters don't wear deodorant, so the upper room has taken on a peculiar scent.

writing.theology.writing.theology.writing.theology.writing.theology.writing.theology.writing.theology. maybe i can go back to school one day and teach people, thus giving me an excuse to wear frumpy sweaters and encounter the idealism of youth. but there's still so much to learn for now.

attempting yoga(ish)

if you add the word "ish" to any word, your sentence becomes confusing, a thing of mystery.

this week, guacemole is my middle name. and i only make friends with chips.

sweet.bean.

2009-05-08T06:03:00.000-07:00

if ya have attention defic…(ooops, already moved on) or you don’t care for long bouts of foolishness. this isn’t your post.

I imagine boys are a little like jelly bellys, if that’s your sort of thing. lots of pretty colors and good flavors to fill up a jar that might otherwise be used for something less wonderful, say rice. and although rice can fill your belly quite full, it has never achieved the gustatory swoons of a sweet bean.

now every girl has a certain right of passage to this jelly belly jar, so long as she has a) discovered its location and b) eaten all her vegetables from supper.

on a separate note. a few psychology hoity-toities once wrote down an interesting theory which claimed that someone’s personality can be pinpointed based on the way they describe their perfect room. let’s pretend my perfect room is a library with two bay windows and a pair of old leather chairs for me and my imagined jelly bean (give or take a cherry end table to place our spectacles.)

if the theory stands, my room reflects an old-soul dreamer--a bit dreary, but overall comfortable and inquisitive.

well, what a silly girl I’ve turned out to be! after all, did no one tell me? one can have either dreams or dessert…but never both together. cause such a magical jar would never be put in the library where books and songs and idealism would have the opportunity to suck those jelly flavors dry.

no … the jelly bean jar sits in the same place it has always sat. above the Kenmore refrigerator. perfectly out of the line of sight. unless, that is, you are a domestic sort of girl and your perfect room is the kitchen. if that’s the case, at a very young age you probably discovered the jar when your mom asked you to fetch the mixing bowl … and i imagine you’ve been snacking from it ever since. developing a keen sense for which were your favorites. hmmmm, you think. cappuccino? or grape crush? or maybe lemon drop if you like em’ sour.

now it is, that after several delightful years of taste testing, you’ve made your decision and you will betroth one certain jelly bean until death do you part.

all the while, i’m feeling a bit claustrophobic in my library. my fictional stories haven’t quite panned out. and i get the feeling that the characters on my page are laughing at my inexperience in life and love. what’s worse, i’m too tired to read anything but picture books as of late.

*gasp* what is this i hear? the jelly bean jar is nearly empty?
i venture out of the library and find truth in this sickly rumor. where once hundreds of flavors occupied the treasured jar, now only two remain—wild blackberry and tutti fruitti. naturally wild blackberries are far too carnal for my taste. mostly fraternity guys who wish to remain bachelors for apparent reasons. sigh. and i’m guessing you’ve already figured that tutti fruitties never care much for girls unless to be friends with them. or to get manicures together.

my only hope is that God in Heaven made some girls clumsy. and when, out of greed, they reached in the jar to take handfuls of beans, a few of the jellies slipped out and onto the floor. I’m hoping that just one of those forgotten and disregarded treasures would turn out to be orange sherbert—which happens to be my favorite flavor of all.
yes please. i would like to order one orange sherbert jelly belly with a side of humor and a tweed coat.

mom says he probably fell under the fridge and is now covered with dust and grime and a little bit of that moldy picante sauce which spilled two summers ago (her eternal optimism) and that in the mean time i should give other flavors a shot because i’m entirely too picky. (her eternal matchmaking)

dreams and dessert.

the enemy

2009-05-04T19:19:00.000-07:00

there's this ball that is always floating about our lives and conversations.

you've never seen it?

that's probably why you let it drop.

but i don't mean that in a cruel way. i just mean you don't notice long silences, or feel the need to make small talk with strangers, or collect awkward exchanges as a hobby.

truth is, i think you're the lucky one.

because i do see the proverbial ball. AND to make matters worse, i'm a clutz. which means anytime i try to keep the ball from dropping, it just hits me in the face.

boom. conversation fail.

last week, for instance. i asked someone from work how she was.

"fine," she said.

"good," i replied in passing. "fine is gooo000ood."

but this week i'm having second thoughts about that declaration. seems there's been a turn in tides and the tables have changed. or do tides turn and ... well, whoever cares. the point is the same:

fine isn't good.

like when you get real dressed up for your darling, and you ask him what he thinks of the packaged deal. maybe fine isn't beautiful.

or when you get your first report card in big kid school, and you "accidentally" lose it on the way home. cause fine was two marks short of smart.

or when you feel your barely cutting this whole saint thing, and you picture what the good Lord will say when he meets ya. fine seems like the worst news.

dear status quo,

dear middle of the line,

dear humdrum,

dear commonplace,

dear a dime a dozen,

dear expendable,

dear run of the mill,

dear five out of ten,

dear par for the course,

dear fine,

you're not good. and whoever said you were?

thanks for the nice picture, kate

2009-04-28T20:23:00.000-07:00

seven is a good number.

if you’re seven feet tall, you get to be an athlete and wear nike for money.

if you’re seven years old, you still get pictures in your books.

if you’re the seventh day, your job is to rest and to talk about the sermon over a buffet—that’s smorgasbord for you southerners.

and if you're seven figures, well, you probably don’t work at an american bank or loan company. (pre- bonus earnings)

but mostly what i know about the number seven comes from the biblical narrative. in this context, it means completion.

that’s why, i don’t find it surprising in the least that my new house has a total of seven darling girls residing there.

and, since i feel like this internet blog is a safe environment, likened to the privacy one gets on pychologist’s couch, i know i can be candid (?)

one of the girls is sorely misbehaved. true enough. she follows me from room to room. has a slobber dilemma that we’ve never really discussed. and yet is the most endearing thing that’s ever eaten my shirts.

meet dog doris—named after doris day, who my family loves eternally.

i hope she ends up taking after her name by singing (howling) beautiful love ballads with a canine named cary grant.

feel like that’s not asking too much for her future. but only time will tell all the adventures the tenants of 107 will dream up. and make no bones about it (right, ms. day?) adventures we shall have.

things that will not serve your social life:

2009-04-28T10:45:00.000-07:00

--staying at home during the weekend to read while your friends go to euro dance parties

--mentioning to these dancing friends that the particular book taking up all your time is Little Women

--also, discussing colonoscopies with boys (maybe i’m joking about this, but probably not)

what concerns me about this list are the first two items. getting entirely too wrapped up in fiction, so that your own life nearly falls to the wayside.

i’m guessing the wayside isn’t a pleasant place. my folks used to warn me about it when i was getting bad grades in middle school.

any big way, this is what happened to me last week. i started reading the book Little Women and couldn’t put it down. not for coffee. not for dancing(like i said). not even for dancing with coffee--which happens frequently at Starbucks when their yuppy drinks have a little kick.

but here’s the worst part.

somewhere around page 335, during the wee hours of Sunday morning, under the influence of a rainstorm, i did the thing that no avid and astute reader would even consider...or admit to.

i. skipped. ahead.

it’s just that one begins to get nervous, all twitchy like when an author starts using foreboding language and hinting to unhappy endings. sure enough, i decided i could not go on one sentence further without knowing whether or not main characters, endearing laurie and rebellious jo, got royally paired.

and what i found was tragic. they don't. and i'm not at all ashamed to tell ya that i nearly cried myself to sleep. after all the sky was crying and i wasn't about to be outdone.

sometimes a book is just a book until it provokes something real that lives inside you.

like the secret of sorrow: the realization that life is not always as it ought to be.

and life is not always as it ought to be.

cause everyone knows that laurie and jo should hold hands in the end.

p.s. miss Alcott, author of Little Women, was bombarded with hate mail after the release of this novel. people demanded that she write a sequel which caused this couple to end up together somehow. she refused. cause someone told her the secret.

my stormy petrel

2009-04-22T17:49:00.000-07:00

you: knock, knock, knock

me: who could it be at this late hour?

you: an old friend, be a dear and answer the door

me: oh no you don't, not letting you in. you're not wanted here.

you: i'll stand here all night, and again tomorrow if you're stubborn of it

me: fine. [stumbling out of bed]

hello 23, come in if you must be such a pest anyway.

this is the first birthday that i didn't welcome. and you're allowed to balk at my absurdity, after all 23 doesn't seem that tired. but, something sounds grown up about it when i say it out loud. grown up means that imagination can't be without reason. grown up means that dessert can't be without two servings of vegetables. grown up means that wild adventures can't be without the sore muscles and tired tomorrow mornings on the job.

so there's my bit, though birthdays aren't all bad. for some reason, someone long ago decided that honoring someone's life meant chocolate cake and wrapped up treats and anthropology gift cards.

thank you someone long ago.

i loved browsing anthro (a store never affordable but for sweet donations by parents) in search for something to spend my gift on. and while i was there, i found more evidence to support my point about being instantly old.

see, no young single girl enters anthropology without finding an adorable dress or two pairs of shoes or earrings that will tie an outfit together perfect like.

but there is another type called old maid (who has generally given up on looking like the magazines ... or washing her hair) and instead finds herself agonizing between

1. the silk robe which no one will see, but is comfortable enough
2. the decorating book on antiques
3. some perfume to replace the old bottle which has been empty for nearly 3.5 years.

i chose number 1 and 2 if you're itching to know. perhaps perfume is for another day.

anyway, if you're worried or constantly meaning to "hook me up" as many have taken to, don't be. i'm sure i'll find a bird one day...

though hopefully he will be more like a peruvian 'warbling' antbird (a tropical bird; known to sing duets with its partner)

and less like a stormy petrel (a type of seabird; also, one fond of bringing strife)

we all danced, nobody cried, the day death died.

2009-04-14T10:19:00.000-07:00

(new song...more to come)

ugh. feeling so nervous cause it's been a long time since the last time we wrote-talked. i bet you have clammy palms right now too, don't you? no, you say? me neither.

lent meant a lot of things this year. no blogging or bunt cake for instance.

but it was the weirdest thing, life kept going. even without my online presence, which is really very skinny in the first place.

and speaking of skinny, i am not a single pound lighter even though i gave up sweets for what seemed like the entire Bush administration. (that is both sr. and jr.)

this was God's good way of telling me that A) lenten practices are not a holier version of the south beach diet and B) that i should continue to swim in ponds of sugar because my hips do lie, my hips do lie.

so like every capitol student, i've come up with the theolo-mathmatic sum for all my time away.

pi and Jesus.

which translates endless mystery and resurrection.

cause the sum is that there isn't. that sacrifice and lent and deserts and 7-steps and 40-days and 3-points aren't my promised lands. and don't quite wrap up in pretty bows. but they are alright places to visit. a bit necessary at times. real necessary at others.

that's what i've got, pi and Jesus. which is not to be confused with pie and Jesus. no siree, no sinfully sweet things to be had by me while i anticipated the good friday and the better sunday.

i can't quite tell you, but Jesus showed up like he never has before. did i think he wouldn't?

sorry if it sounds redundant. or if it isn't new news like the way cnn updates a headline every time some mom buys a ham.

happy Easter friends. our Lord lives. and i'm just not over it yet.

Easter thoughts by John

2009-04-14T06:35:00.001-07:00

My dear friend Elizabeth Dark Wiley posted this poem. And my soul did an Amen.

Seven Stanzas at Easter
By John Updike

Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells' dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His Flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that — pierced — died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck's quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.

the mailman looks like ray lamontagne

2009-03-07T11:05:00.000-08:00

which has nothing to do with this post. but i had to tell you before i couldn't tell you.

now, then.

people are always confessing things on the backs of their cars. i try to understand it. and all i can infer is that it's a little less like wearing your heart on your sleeve, and more like wearing your heart on your heiny.

by and large, bumper stickers serve as the bane of my existence. but every once in a knock back, i see one that makes me think. or laugh.

usually they just make me want to rear end someone real hard like.apologies to God and darling All-State commercial man.

today i saw one that read "my child received a great report at her dental exam!" well done, mini-van mom.

don't think my mother ever received one of those bumper stickers after my check-ups. as a child, i received mostly C's on my dental report card. C's being cavities. though better than F's which i assume is false teeth.

this is precisely what was trying to explain to a dentist gentleman i met last night when i decided to partake in the awkward art of mingling.

however, what i should have known is that shows are the one excuse not to make a fool of yourself. when in doubt, just let the music talk.

or if you're me, talk above the music.

quite naturally, when this guy mentioned his profession involved oral decay and Novocaine, i felt the need to confess to him that i haven't been flossing as often as i ought.

he told me that was gross. and that even supposing he wasn't a dentist, i should keep things like this to myself as a general rule of thumb.

noted. cause he was probably right. probably shouldn't tell ya that my hands get clammy when i'm nervous. or that i would rather be run over by a bicycle than go on a first date. or that my favorite widgit is "word of the day."

cause then you would know that i'm a dorky old soul, which is not to be confused with a hip vintage soul.

confession can take you out with just a couple swings. but i'm not convinced the catholics were wrong to take the hit.

so, here goes.

sometimes i try to earn my spot in your heart. sometimes i try to say all the clever things i can muster. try to find a stage and a microphone or an outfit and a blog so that you'll see me. and once you've seen me i try to make it worth your while. cause then you'll keep me around. and you won't throw me out of the life boat when we've run out of seats.

and we WILL run out of seats.

that's why i'm taking a lenten break from this whole being "online relevant." it's my own fantastically feeble interpretation of monastacism. it's as unpublic as i get.

instead, i wanna read about you. to be thrilled with your stories. to jot down that glorious quote you wrote last week. to laugh when you post a funny link without worrying bout how to embed it on my page. wanna be your biggest fan mostly, if you'll let me.

if you get too downhearted about my blogging absence(ha) just compare it to last years writers strike.

true or false, the office came back stronger than ever?

.... come to think, false.

crap.

things that are in the red: clifford, tomatoes, and our unfortunate economy.

2009-03-04T10:14:00.000-08:00

today i went to a cute cafe that is called "we are tomato." i think. or maybe "you say tomato?" or "obama loves tomato?"

you gotta admit, we're all getting a bit liberal with his name usage. and i kid you not, last time i visited chicago i sauntered right by a place called "obama's hair cuts." doubtful.

anyway, while i was there i was was waiting for some hummus (because i didn't feel like tomatoes.)

i'm a bad wait(er).

so to distract my hunger pangs, i flipped through yesterday's kansas city star.

and i saw this headline...

I double dog dare you??

considering what i wrote yesterday, i cannot assume this is coincidence.

what is disconcerting however, is that the title of this article is addressing clifford the big red dog making an appearance at crown center ice rink.

who are you kansas city newspaper writer-man? and what do you want with me?

you ought to know that giant discolored canines give me the creeps. and i've never been fond of skating on blades mainly due to my appreciation for appendages.

truth or ...

2009-03-03T07:42:00.000-08:00

it's been a decade and some change since anyone has double dog dared me.

which means the potential to become a 'weak sauce' could soon be actualized. *shudder*

just can't allow for such. and that's why i take it upon myself to present challenges mostly every day.

something to the effect of

liz, i dare you to eat that entire [slice of] pinapple cake.
: that's so crazy. okay.

dare you to never work out again a day in your life.
: i'll do it, but you're killin me smalls.

bet you can't even be a total dork-wad in public.
: how much you wanna bet fool?

done. done and done.

i never get to the double dog part. cause i'm good at all those.

if you don't mind, i'm going to go on and say what everyone's thinking...

must be rough to be such a brave human being (?)

sole criticism: rude greeter

2009-03-01T09:01:00.000-08:00

sunday morning. no keys. can't find my keys. I NEED MY KEYS!!! Where the flip *%&*#^E are my keys?!!!!! usually my car is a good dear and takes me to church. sunday morning. no keys.

REVISED sunday morning service.

greeter: me. addressing myself. in my head.
good morning liz. you're such an idiot. no surprise you lost your keys. well, take a seat already. i'm glad you could at least find the living room today.

pew: love seat. facing the fire. (not a metaphor for the Holy Spirit, though he came too)

service project: doing the dishes for mom.

sermon: tim keel. mp3 "shining like stars"

communion: dr pepper and buttered toast.

church bulletin: yellow legal pad. minimal doodling.

worship: itunes. midtown worship project: "i asked the Lord"

exactly what i needed this morning. to be reminded that i live in a different narrative than the world.

"crisis reveals our deepest commitments and the habits of our heart."

we're still fighting it

2009-02-28T15:17:00.000-08:00

my friend rachel from work is rad. and her rad can beat up almost anyone else's rad because her rad is from boston. and you know what they say about people from the east coast ...

no? well, that's too bad for the both of us, cause i was hoping you could fill me in.

well, if you haven't met rachel and her husband jason, you ought to feel very ashamed of yourself. ahhhh, just kidding. but maybe not. maybe you should go sit in the corner until you've thought about what you've done. (or worse punishment, read on...)

sometimes jason buys rachel flowers for no good reason. just to say, "i think you're still neat" even though i watch you drink the leftover milk from your cereal each morning. or "i think you're still pretty" even though your socks have holes in them a lot.

this week he got her red gerber daisies. but on day two, the stems sorta all hunched over like they were having a migraine or lower back pain. i could tell rachel was real sad about it, thinking the flowers were symbolic or something.

but i told her not to worry. and that she should just tell jason,
"i still love you when you give me droopy flowers, because you'll still love me when i give you droopy boobs."

and thats just about the most profound advice i've given in ages. which goes to show why no one has asked me to be their wingman or therapist lately.

aging.is.beautiful ... "but everybody knows it sucks to grow up."

where'd ya get your social status? oh, just on craigslist.

2009-02-28T14:52:00.001-08:00

thinkin of buying a volvo stationwagon of some kind. indie points + 10

wanting indie points. - 20

you can't win these days.

so here's the deal, i'm throwing in the towel on all this being cool stuff. and you should too.

unless of course your towel is from the thrift store. then, award yourself indie points + 3

and another one bites the dust

2009-02-25T19:48:00.000-08:00

i was in a wedding this weekend. a friend from college met someone she considered “a keeper.” i agreed after meeting him on Friday that he was real nice in the way of husbandry. and he drove a Honda Accord which means he’s reliable for the long haul. probably won't won't ask you to buy his dinner. aka. a congressional bailout.

if you date anyone with the initials GM. run.

at some point you might correlate my working title as yet another lame attempt to link a famous 80’s punk rock song with the concept of matrimony. don't. i've gotta interject.

cause i don’t at all think marriage should rightly be compared to someone eating mud. in fact, it ranks pretty high up there on the sacrament charts, though never lands the playoffs cause of eucharist and brotherly love.

no, when i mean bite the dust, i'm referring to falling. literally. not "in love" you saps :)

i don’t expect my inner-clutz to ever really respond appropriately to social situations. but gosh oh friday, it ought to behave where weddings are concerned. i even gave myself a lecture before the event began. something to the effect of

dear feet, you decided around my first birthday that you indeed would be my primary mode of transportation. and yet you’ve been letting me down for many years now. tripping as you please. sacrificing my big toe on the sharp edges of furniture. also, refusing to be gracious where high heels(formerly known as stilts) are concerned. could you kindly put your best foot forward here? no pun intended. yes pun intended. when using a pun, fess' up.

anyway, things were off to a good start. i moseyed on down the isle with no mishaps (which naturally meant i was going to add some swagger to my step) but just as i started getting cheeky, a bridesmaid stumble occurred on the fourth stair step. there were only five steps in all. and looking back, i was eerily too close to the promised land.

know what’s real strange, though? all the other bridesmaids tripped at the very same spot, the very same bloody stair. ( that was NOT a use of british slang. the stair was, in fact, the probable cause of fierce injury and blood-spill)

musical queue: bum.bum.bum. and another one ... yyeessshhh.

when i got to contemplating the whole thing, it seemed to me that all of us were so worried bout our own parts, we didn’t care to watch the others. and therefore couldn’t learn from anyone's mistakes.

my less spiritual theory is that our dress hems were too long.

still, makes me wonder. pretend generations here on earth are all bridesmaids in super ugly dresses. and no generation learns from the generation before it. and we all keep trippin on the same stair. AND NO ONE LEVELS THE PLAYING FIELD FOR THEIR CHILDREN. and creation keeps groaning. and there's no such thing as slow redemption for the whole. until there is.

such thinking is the direct result of katie couric and the 7 oclock news.

ben gibbard,

2009-02-13T10:48:00.000-08:00

don't be embarrassed dear.

i realize when you said the words,

zooey deschanel, will you marry me and write beautiful music for the rest of all time?

you really meant

liz perry, will you marry me and write beautiful music for the rest of all time?

it's an honest mistake and i won't hold it against you. why, i can't even remember my own name half the time.

don't think and drive.

2009-02-12T15:43:00.000-08:00

today i was thinking boutcha in the car.

i was all ponder. ponder. slam on the breaks. supplication of thanks for not rear ending the lexus in front of me. back to pondering. ponder some more.

and then something real weird happened in the middle of my stand still traffic jam (courtesy of highway 70 west.)

in the midst of daydreaming, i started getting warm and fuzzy in my heart. it was real surprising that you could bring so much excitement to my bones. the mere thought of ya made my temperature go way up.

i must really like you, i think.

20 seconds later, a realization.

... ahhhh, dag gum seat warmers are turned on again.

supa fly nike's

2009-02-06T20:25:00.000-08:00

there are lots of different kind of people. all of us weird. and in our universal weirdness, completely normal. though i don't encourage you to ponder that too long, cause i can't promise it contained sense or value. like most things on the internet.

anyway, all of us (weirdos) have ways of reacting to our dragons. *authors note: dragon equals pain.

some of paint on pretend smiles.

others of us take long drives.

buy lots of armor. or buy high heels.

sit in a dark room.

get lost in a book.

finish a pint of ice cream. or a pint of beer.

become a dragon to someone else.

or run. run.

run.

that's me, the running girl.

which used to be fine, cause that's what we did. you fought the fire breathing beast in that darling classic tee of yours. and i took for the hills. knowing you would catch up soon enough. and then we would seal the deal with one of those kisses that makes movie credits roll.

ahhh, but if you stay long enough to watch, every flick has a sequel. has to. otherwise what would we do with all the excess popcorn?

and so it is, that i am at the sporting goods store. looking for some new tennies, some better tennies. because you've left for a country with a different name and a different hair color.

for me, the following options remain. run faster. or learn to fight on my own.

when did this happen? when did you, my friend and more, become my dragon?

... on a happier note. i once did a clay dragon for art class at the elementary school. mom thought it was so swell that she put it on her work desk. that dragon is not a bad one. it stands for business saavy.

met the neighbors today.

2009-01-29T10:21:00.000-08:00

i'm sooOOO00 urban now. you should see me. i own the hood. i laugh at danger. and these are all filthy lies.

but in seriousness, i'm real good and proud of my company for choosing troost avenue as our location. let's just say troost avenue often makes the 5 o'clock news and not because they rock PTA benefits.

anyway, this afternoon i said hello to a stranger-gentleman as i was walking to work. he said "hi" (normal) and then went on further to say "can i goo youuurrr wayyyyy gurl?" (ab.normal.)

i didn't respond ... besides picking up my pace.

but the more i thought about it, the more i appreciated his words.

he noticed that i was going a different way. and he WANTED to come. granted, i think he wasn't interested in my spiritual trajectory.

but what if people knew that the church was going a DIFFERENT(better) way and WANTED to come??

sadly, our way usually looks like theirs. we do a great job of blending in. falling in line. keeping up with the flow of traffic. building bigger and better billboards than our secular counter.

it's all camouflage and guns with us.

this can't be the way. God show us what that is.

and p.s. to my mom who is my one subscriber. please don't be concerned. i was gonna mace that man if he started following me. and then i was gonna leave him a gospel track.

huggies. depends. and trophies.

2009-01-28T13:42:00.000-08:00

you enter this world in diapers

and you leave this world in diapers.

... and somewhere in between you collect pride and display it on your shelves. and wear it on your sleeve. and toot your horn real loud. and you refuse the love of God.

and by you, i mean me.

forgive me Lord when i forget my humanity.

i'm playing a show february 3rd and you should come.

2009-01-27T17:29:00.000-08:00

in other thoughts ...

some friends bring out the best in you. they tickle your funny bone in a non weird way. is there a non weird way? i'll answer that for you, no.

they make ya laugh till orange pop comes out of your nose. they give you a case of the belly laughs and the snorts. they put tina faye to shame.

bet you have some of these wisecracks in your life. i hope so anyway.

today i had a toothache. it was all very dramatic. so today vicodine was that friend. the funny friend.

cept vicodin doesn't know when enough is enough. when to be quiet. when to stop dancing. vicodin doesn't understand that sometimes you have a presentation to give to clients.

pain medication and pitching a product. no communication theory book ever had a chapter on that.

razzle dazzle, mr. pres.

2009-01-20T06:12:00.000-08:00

i think i'm mostly nonpartisan. and i don't really hope for any men in washington to change my life.

it's not my kingdom. and that's a durn good thing considering american government class always kicked me in the shins. left me real befuddled.

but today, good grief, i'm pleased with my fellow americans.

bout time we started believing that every type of man is glorious. cause God isn't white. or black. or razzle dazzle rose. (that's an honest crayola color)

btw.lol.omg.idn.jk.hagd.cya. TTYL

2009-01-17T19:23:00.001-08:00

quit facebook ... again.

for reasons unknown, i am terribly introverted. and facebook has lent me to way too much social interaction. i suppose i've been a terrible digital friend. and i apologize to you. i meant to write "lol" on your wall after you sent me that funny link. and i honestly was planning on looking through your 52nd album entitled... ahhh, i forget. but it was something witty. i promise i almost bought you a super-rad virtual present when i noticed when your relationship status changed.

do you suppose that would've salvaged us?

on a different tangent, i hope all things world wide web'ish' will continue on their course. after all, it's the information age.

and at some point, after we've twittered ourselves into frenzies and wikipedia(ed) every known subject, we will find ourselves with the same foolish hearts of all those before us. the human condition didn't change when al gore and his inventions came along.

moreover.

you know those people that constantly contradict themselves? that berate modern technology on their blogs? no, i don't either.

post.scriptum.
now that i'm all freed up. if you have a blog of your own, i'd love to check in. be a good dear and email me your url?

in case you were worried, southwest still serves peanuts.

2009-01-10T09:57:00.000-08:00

half way to LA on this january ten.

mom and i are at the phoenix airport. she said to tell you, hello. i'll forget if i don't do it now.

hello.

God had mercy on me in the airplane. sat next to an older man who didn't use the whole arm rest or fall asleep in my lap or try and strike up conversation about the arizona national bird. amen.

instead i spent the delightful flight in and out of sleep. sigur ros asked if they could come to. i didn't want to be rude and so i asked them to kindly serenade me the entire way except during take off and landing. the flight attendant said it was a safety precaution, i think she really just hates any music that isn't rap. she had a grill.

also started a book called nineteen eighty four. sheesh. i'm only a few chapters in and i'm certain the world is ending. never really had the capability to distinguish fact from fiction in the midst of reading a good novel. this is the genius of story.

which brings me to my final point before i board yet another flight. i hope you get lost today in a narrative. even if it's not the printed kind. the kingdom narrative is unfolding in all sorts of faces. i hope you read the people around you and rejoice with them and mourn with them because you no longer can distinguish where you end and they begin.

mom already packed up the fake tree.

2009-01-05T16:54:00.000-08:00

merry christmas. that's right. it's still christmas even though it's january sixth in the year twenty and nine.

there are 12 days of christmas according to the liturgical calendar. and despite rumors of promptness, claus delivers some presents late. not unlike UPS and the biblical wise men (yup, they arrived when Jesus was a walking tot)

anyway, today, on this last day of christmas, santa brought me a raspy voice via the cold virus. which is a delight since i usually sound like a mature eight year old. for instance, a telemarketer once thought to call social services on my parents because she was scared as a "little girl" i was being neglected and left home alone. i was a junior in high school.

not today, though. today my voice is a jazz bar. a pack a day. mysterious and hoarse, ambitious yet weathered.

now all i want to do all day long is talk. talk. talk.

hi tilly, i like your shoes ...

eugene, did i ever tell you about my trip to seattle ...

oh jessica, my boyfriend did the strangest thing ...

but as it goes, i've never met a tilly or eugene. i don't particularly care for anyones shoe selection, especially my own. jessica's boyfriend actually exists apart from dreams and guitar ballads. and seattle is still the one place in america i want to visit, but for some reason have not.

oh dear, now i'm a mute. all this good sickness gone to waste.

instead i will scour through word processor and find the most raspy font of all. cause all i do these days is type. type. type.

merry christmas blogworld.

rush of blood to the head(?)

2008-12-29T11:52:00.000-08:00

i found this picture. it reminds me of my family, what a bunch of birds we are.

please note also the one hanging upside down. a supremely accurate portrait of the three years in my life when i watched tv and performed many other basic functions while standing on my head.

ahh, you say, the oddity makes better sense. but seriously, why didn't my parents intervene?

(off the record, do you think the coldplay lyric was a bit forced?)

first there was silence

2008-12-29T06:59:00.000-08:00

and solitiude.

seems like God is always talking real good to shepherds and monks. cause these folks, outside of the mainstream, don't get bent out of shape when their ipod's run out of battery. they don't schedule their weeks on tivo terms. their equivilant to rush hour traffic is ... well, they don't have one. maybe congestion in the sheep pen.

i've been curious about the Spirit lately. not so much wondering whether it's moving, but more so how it's moving. in what direction.

it would sure be something else to have the confide(nce) of the Writer. to share in the secrets of unfolding narrative.

david thought so too:

"The fact is, God, the Master, does nothing
without first telling his prophets the whole story.

The lion has roared--
who isn't frightened?

God has spoken--
what prophet can keep quiet?"

disney is asking for the script.

2008-12-26T07:52:00.000-08:00

my niece is almost three, but a big talker. that's why i felt mounds of pressure when she asked me to tell her a story. panic started in like it used to during speech class when i knew i was bout to give an impromptu.

after the sweating and chills subsided, i began ...

me: once upon a time (safe start, right?) there was a girl who had a beautiful blue dress

hayley: girls where pink.

me: of course. like i said, this girl had a beautiful pink dress. though hayley, you shouldn't always be so quick to reinforce gender stereotypes.

hayley: *nodding* (clearly not understanding a word)

me: so, this girl in her beautiful dress passed by an owl in the tree. what noise does an owl make hayley?

hayley: oink. oink.

me: yes (lie.) the owl said oink. oink. and the owl was lonely and had no friends. though who can expect much when the owl doesn't hooo as he ought.

hayley: (looking distraught) what color is the owl?

me: pink, though not opposed to blue. so, the girl in the beautiful dress climbed up the tree and tore her dress on the way up. and all because she wanted to help the owl.

hayley: (now walking away, nearing tears) you are the worst story teller that i've ever come into contact with in my three good years on earth. unimaginative, absurd, and a bit dark if i can just be frank with you aunt liz.

okay.

she didn't say all that, and i didn't say all that. however, after undergoing the stress to make up one pathetic skimp of a story, i've come to know that my maternal skills need some tending to.

and i have cold hands. that's another worry. a mother's hands should be warm.

good thing the only thing i've got to nurture at this point in my life is a plastic fern which sits on the breakfast table.

shade 174. pomegranate-you're-still-a-dork-even-though-your-lips-are-red.

2008-12-19T21:19:00.000-08:00

(now available in gloss)

i have a quote on my facebook. it ends with the last lines ...

"To stay young,
To save the world,
Break the mirror."

the author is a man. and so i'm currently i'm working to transcribe this narration into a woman's tone.

tonight i found some inspiration. call it a personal reflection.

"To stay young,
To save the world,
Break the mirror ... after you get that lipstick off your teeth."

more to come ...

it's her curvy template, isn't it?

2008-12-17T16:03:00.000-08:00

i tried on skinny font and my super wit.

cause i wanted my blog to marry his blog.

but as it goes, his blog was dating an urban outfitters page with swoopy bangs and a degree in graphic design.

... and that's before i told him i live in my parent's basement.

farmer's almanac

2008-12-17T06:06:00.000-08:00

got rid of the times and dates on this blog page. and mainly in my life.

why a numeric system for everything? why can't i mark days by their revelation, movement and by the way they wrap me up?

say for instance, june 18.

means nothing.

but that was the day the sky turned ominous green and we thought the tornados were comin.

june 19.

the day we watched the tube and found out the said sky coloration was pollution from a new factory in kansas city.

june 20.

the day i factored my cool status against wearing one of those medical masks for the rest of my life.

love youuuurrr lungs. stop breathing. or move to new zealand.

well, i've stopped biting my nails.

2008-12-14T21:35:00.000-08:00

lately, i've been doing this weird ruffle my hair motion when i'm perplexed. i'm afraid people think it's a scalp problem, a bad case of dandruff. i can assure you, it's just a nervous habit.

things that perplex me as of late?

flirting.

car industry bail-outs.

and the unique economy of cubicle life.

also, i've been dying for a good scrabble match. (and not against my mom, she remains intensely more intelligent and verbose than i)

my life has gotten out of control, yeah? the excitement can be likened to bingo night at an old person's home.

they only play bingo cause no one has scrabble board.

wilst write thou you on the morn? (and other thoughts outstanding)

2008-11-28T19:51:00.000-08:00

i don't journal. not like i used to anyway. and this is a crying shame ... i can sense you are bawling already. you should stop that now, it's not going to do either one of us a bit of good or change the fact. unless you just haven't had a good cry in a while. then, feel free. it makes us feel more human when we exercise our tear ducts. some of us (me) could use exercise of any kind after the latest thanksgiving supper.

like i said, i once collected my thoughts in little flowered printed, college ruled notebooks. and i wrote very nice things in them. made good promises to God. created space for solitude. and became reasonably self-aware in the process.

besides, in college i had a heaping crush on a charming intellectual named ... (you didn't think i was going to be that transparent, did you?) and he told me that i ought to jot things down. when a charming intellectual tells you anything, you mostly do it with all the cutesy and insightfulness you can conjure.

so it began, the writing. funny thing is, when i wrote things on paper (an archaic thought in the wake of word documentation) i must have taken on some sort of 18th century poetic form.

seriously, i re-read these old journals and i'm amazed at the antique tones that emerged from my authorship. incredible, really. makes me believe there might be something to it. that no matter how vintage a journal cover from barnes and noble might be, one doesn't slip in and out of language from the romantic era without some good reason.

theory one: i have taken to the belief that God is too lofty for the language of a person living in 2008. that he has somehow been confined to the thees and thous and havest yous of the king james Bible. that he must have nothing further to say to the billions of people who currently roam about and use slang.

theory two: i find it easier to be authentic when i'm being someone else. like having a pseudonym, a pen name for your own journals. hmmmm, a seriously contradictory thought. but i think i'm really onto something here. there is no ownership or accountability with ghostwriting. and sometimes that the sort of freedom you need to say what's really on your mind.

i used to have the most profound conversations with my roommate, carrie dobin, while talking in a napolean dynamite voice. this wasn't a one time occurrence. no, we went on this way for an entire year. i could say anything and it flew. so, there i sat baring my soul in full napolean character, and she would likewise respond with a spot-on kip. his lisp and all. talent show material if you ask me. without our voices to hide behind, we were practically mutes.

theory three: at one point faith IS romantic, and that's when you write about it. and then it gets dirty, and that's when you can't. and you wait for the day when mysticism and realism will be reconciled inside you with power, which might make for a journal entry unlike any other.

that's why in the book of revelation they talk about having scrolls in heaven. cause words still matter there.

what is all this i'm saying? this isn't even what i was going to write about tonight. too late, the words are spilled and i'm too tired to clean them up.

in (much needed) conclusion,

journaling is good, i think. necessary for discipleship? well, no. i suppose not. might not be your thing.

maybe i'll pick it back up one day. and i won't go all jane austen-esque on the pages. maybe i'll write in my own voice. but maybe it doesn't even matter.

i do think it might speed up the process if a charming intellectual came along ...

stuck

2008-11-19T18:49:00.000-08:00

i apologize for the delay in posting, friends. if you are bracing yourself for some sort of genius to emerge from my weeks spent away, i fear you should ... unbrace (?)

sometimes life is too much for words. and thats when you hope the groans of the Spirit are interceding on your behalf.

i drove to work for the last time today. you start to look around, open your eyes a bit wider during last things.

so, it wasn't until just recently that i noticed every day i have been passing the factory of Can-Do National Tape. i think you would agree, it's a bit odd. but, it opened several avenues of thought. and like it or not, i have never been one to take the mental highway. avenues have more scenery and adventure.

where was i? oh yes, the tape.

truth of it is, i need some can-do tape in my life. a lot of things are broken there. relationships. a few dreams. those earrings i really liked. some promises. all sorts of technology, broken. and that's just getting started.

where are you mr. fix it man? you with your can-do tape, there is a tear in my heart and i think you have the cure. sell me your adhesive and tell me it's eternal. that i won't ever break like so, again.

when all these voices are sayin you can't. or not one bit. it aint gon' happen for ya. you haven't earned it. your voice won't carry.

have you ever considered saying back, you're right. i can't. but i'm not scared. cause God's got this one ... and every other one.

tape like this doesn't doesn't just sit on our desks next our business cards and white out pens. someone at the Can-Do National Tape factory wants us to search. wants us to surrender. and maybe even wants our brokenness?? because everyone knows that the quick fix doesn't make us disciples, it just makes us americans.

baaaaaaaa. (i think that was a holy groan)

on an unrelated but sort of fitting note, i love my roommates from college. we had two bunk beds in one 8X10 room -- if the math is right, that makes for four girls in an extremely small space. but it also makes for four girls lying awake at night and creating absurd discourse.

at one point, we were convinced we all had tape worms. this was later proved to be false. however, we had barrels of good fun naming our worms. there was scotch, and duct, and double stick ... or was it double wide?

doesn't matter, i guess. the point is that i hope everyone everywhere gets to live with funny roommates.

and i hope everyone everywhere comes to a place in their life where they know they can't. where their over the counter prescriptions spill and their imitation tape falls off and their friends don't save them.

cause it might be the first time they say the Lord's prayer, and mean it.

the break up

2008-10-31T07:29:00.000-07:00

"the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore"

i'll tell you how it began, though i don't remember the exact moment coming became for me going. that continuum is ever so fragile.

nashville had a way of romancing me good ...

it's just that you begin to feel temporary when you drink at the same coffee joint for five months. and you can't find a seat anywhere.

no open booths to hug a cup of warm misery and cry, no vacant corners to tuck away and type a revelation or two.

by golly, i'll ask if i can sit with someone, you think. perhaps that fellow in the grey knit scarf cause he looks endearing and reminds me of someone i once knew.

but you don't. you take your tea in a to-go cup and slip out the back door and prepare to fight traffic on hillsboro road.

and someone else claims the seat.

it's just that you begin to feel temporary when you work at a place for five months. and there are no pictures on your wall.

monday morning and you're staring around a white washed office. counting holes in the paint. proof that other people once thought to hang things on it.

why are there no pictures on my wall? i ought to put a picture up, you think.

but you don't. you go on to write an email to whoseherface and print a copy for whatshisname or daydream about whatchacallit.

and the canvas remains blank.

it's just that you begin to feel temporary when you live on fairmont court for five months. yet there are no curtains on your windows.

because as a girl, you're been granted certain rights to a paisley pattern which will shield you from the rest of the world. or a shabby chic material which will prove useful for catching cool southern winds and blinding sunlight.

that anthropology store, why, it's nice. i should run in this afternoon, you think.

but you don't. you get lost instead in a book or pound out a melody or sleep until you are tired of rest.

and the windows remain naked.

i suppose you may not be convinced about this break up, this move of mine. have i told you i'm moving yet? i am. to kansas city. but i could go on. cause there have been more things than blank walls, and unclothed windows and crowded coffee joints that have led me to believe nashville wasn't meant to be my home.

i took up a temporary residence here. temporary. but still necessary. though for the life of me, i cannot yet see how those two things will be reconciled.

if at this point you are given to concern on my behalf, be rest assured that lots of people live this way. abraham had tents. and paul stayed on people's couches. and i have friends who live out of suitcases.

God is watching over our coming and going. and he's said the promised land isn't too much farther, just a lifetime away. and right outside our door. wherever our door is.

and after all dear nashville. it's not you, it's me.

war pommery

2008-10-30T11:40:00.001-07:00

sometimes life is profound. and sometimes life is boring. and sometimes life is profoundly boring.

it's a thing we call the grind. a thing called working the fields. earning a wage. paying our dues. getting in line. catching the drift.

but some days pose questions and silliness.

yesterday i went to post a comment on my friends blog. without a second thought i began the routine task of typing in the word verification. i stand on my head, adjust my flourescent lighting, tilt my screen at a 40 degree angle north/northwest, tug my ear twice and squint my eyes to read the letters before me ... they (the word verificators) make it nearly impossible.

war pommery

w-a-r p-o-m-what the hells bells am i writing?!?!

this sent me into a nancy drew"ish" frenzy. war pommery. sounds lovely right? sounds like something you rub into your hair to keep it looking nice in case a photo opportunity presents itself in the middle east. sounds like a thing cheerleaders might hold if they were ever asked to enlist.

i decide not to let the investigation end with my supposing.

naturally, i went to the wisest and most credible source available. wikipedia.

Pommery: a French Champagne house located in Reims ... under the guidance of Alexandre's widow, Louise Pommery, the firm was dedicated to Champagne production and soon became one of the region's largest Champagne brands.

war pommery, war by the drink?

war by the bottle?
war by the pack?
war by the dollar?
war by the silence?
war by the tounge?
war by the thought?
war by your pride?
war by your party?(liberal or conservative)
war by your weapon?
war by your doctrine?

i'm reading rob bell's new book, jesus came to save the christians. i'm a sucker for the christian inspiration section, i admit. they'll have a support group for us one day. just you wait, i'll be there every week. my name is liz and i've been stalking c.s. lewis for years...

anyway, this new text is making me think.

i think we are fighting a champaigne wars. money and fame and bling and rights.
leading us to fight a violent wars. militias and forts and bombs and lives.

we babylonians are fighting from the inside out. yet november fourth we will desperately seek salvation from a ceaser living on capitol hill. (?)

in other thoughts,

word verifications are put in place so you will receive feedback or blog comments from real human beings. and not the robot called your computer.

but, frankly, i'm interested to know what a robot would have to say about my post. maybe he or she (to be fair) would add something humorous and intriguing to our dialogue. and would prove my theory that one day machines will come to rule us all. ;)

damned love

2008-10-27T15:57:00.000-07:00

in kindergarten i had two friends. Respect and Love.

Respect's parents had bought her 64 of the most beautiful, unused crayons for her art box. while Love had only a few worn down crayola's and some dried out markers. handed down from an older sibling, i think.

therefore, it's plain to see, when push came to shove, i chose Respect as my creative co-conspirator. how else could i expect my pictures to make it on the refrigerator each week?

__________

in junior high i had the same two friends.

Respect got to paint her eyelashes before the rest of us; she had all of the pre-pubescent boys staring at her in the lunch line. while Love was busy entering the awkward stage. braces and perms and pleather and all.

therefore, it's plain to see, when push came to shove, i chose to eat chicken fried steak with Respect. our mess hall was the crime scene for far too many social deaths, and i couldn't afford such -- what, when my testimony was at stake.

__________

even in high school, my two friends kind of stuck around.

Respect was well rounded cause she had a varsity letter in two sports, not to mention a homecoming crown, and an AP math. while Love went around claiming that the honor roll was politically perverse measurement, and looked like a dying bird when she attempted to run in gym class, and "accidentally" slept through the entire homecoming football game.

therefore, isn't it plain to see, when push came to shove, i had to be locker partners with Respect? they say faculty will notice if your "in" with the good crowd -- and a college recommendation letter can make or break a girl.

__________

those two friends followed me to a university up north. loyal, they were.

Respect sat in warm coffee shops with chai lattes begging for philosophies and ideologies and terminologies that would solve the world's problems. while Love ate too much and sang off key and danced and cried and cussed and kissed and praised her way through those four endearing years.

therefore, it's plain to see, when push came to shove, i had to choose the spirituality of Respect. because her ideas could be put in thesis form, like the dissertation i intend to write in seminary one day.

damned love. that's my point i think.

let it be known, that i think respect is beautiful and rare and surprising like a package in your mail box. it's only when respect has beat out love, foolish-undignified- nothing to gain -finally redeemed- love, that i must hang my head low. and cry for what wasn't. and cry for what isn't.

it's only when respect becomes my crayon box and my lunch seat and my locker partner and my intelligeable advisor that i must pray for sweet love, love, love to forget. and to become my future.

if my poster paint has failed to convey, let me borrow the real life picture of a man named henri nouwen. he was a brilliant thinker in the theology halls. he taught at notre dame, and harvard and yale. until one day, he felt like God said he should go hang out with mentally handicapped people in a canadian hospital. it's cold in canada. and no one there could comprehend what a degree was, much less a thing called ivy league.

he wiped tears and bottoms most days, rather than discussing nobel peace prizes and bail out plans ... until the day he passed.

i don't know what that means for me now.

waldo, meet ray.

2008-10-20T19:26:00.000-07:00

sometimes i lose myself. just little bits at a time. an arm here, a leg there, a senseless comment, an empty promise, a half-eaten cheese sandwich in the fridge ...

lost. fragments of a girl to the clutter of a nervous world. a nervous habit. a nervous mind. and a busy page.

like those "where's waldo" books. just opening the things you are instantly given to one of two ends 1) inspiration and compulsion until you locate the man in the red and white stripes or 2) anxiety upon which you quickly shut the book and try for lighter, less demanding literature. perhaps dr. suess or one of his affiliates.

i've always been a fan of the star belly sneetches myself.

nope. never developed an affinity for this chap, waldo. never knew why i needed to find him at the expense of, say, my nap time or afternoon snack of graham crackers and icing.

all this came to mind when yesterday, somebody who i have not been faithfully respondent to, wrote something to the effect of where's waldo? screw that! the better question is where's liz?!

true words that one spoke. cause all of a sudden something clicked. i need to be found. waldo and i both.

we need desperately to be found. because we are beginning to blend in with everything around us. we are picking up a southern accent. contemplating the use of political bumper stickers. and we are buying white v-neck tees.

but i've come to know that there is something that never fails me as i seek identity. the Word. when by grace i invite the Holy Movement. when i ask instruction from the ancient prophets. and when i search for this man Jesus who made a good covenant with me.

and through old texts, he breathes eternal truths. he's constantly updating his blogs, you know. not quite done talking with humanity. not quite done singing to us. never through finding us.

i noticed something just yesterday. mainly, that shows make you feel very small. like last night, when i sat in a venue with hundreds of folk who (like me) were basking in the comfort and serenades of a certain ray lamontagne. good and packed in we were.

and i'm certain if one were to scan the room they might not discover me, what with all the people.

where's lizzy?

row 5 seat 3. being sung to. being found almost. almost. almost. already. almost. completely. not yet. soon.

if only i could give up the rhymes of dr. suess and the suggestion of a nap and the sweetness of graham crackers with icing.

to find and be found, by you friend.

creative writing project due friday

2008-10-13T13:12:00.000-07:00

I have this theory about love. You see, every time I come close to figuring the whole thing out, when I get one tiny pi sign away from solving the equation, a friend will call with the news of engagement.

And, I will positively think that person is crazy. Because their love story won’t fit any of my previous ponderings.

So, now it is, that after all these many 22 years of letting my kindergarten crush, Robbie Miller, eat the cheese off my pizza every Wednesday -- after playground hand holding and uncommitted college boyfriends, only now have i created this theory about love.

It’s rather light hearted and comical. Cause although God seems to be in the business of making us holy and good, His Son and prophets were not documented as saying much about dating and marriage.

Mainly just that if you feel like you constantly have the urge to “kiss,” that you should just go ahead and marry so you don’t lust and drool all over the place. It’s quite a disgusting mess for the rest of us. Another notable thing he mentioned was that wives and husbands should be good to one another. Like love and respect each other and not get mad about who has the remote on Thursday night when the option of either "Grey’s Anatomy" or “The Office” has the potential to create a proverbial world war. At least in a pre-TIVO realm.

But, if I remember correctly, Christ's issuing for love and respect are widespread commands. He said we ought also to treat our neighbors in this sacraficial Spirit.

No, God doesn’t talk about romance all that much. And even when someone writes a book in the Scriptures about young love birds, you get the sense that their story is meant to be more of a symbolism. The man Solomon, after all, was a song-writer. And more than a handful of good men with guitars have found a way to sing to the deepest things of life while describing, say, strawberry fields, or the color yellow, or even a breakfast of banana pancakes.

Now, I don’t mean this to be a public disregard. And I don’t believe God has left the scene in regards to romantic intimacy. But, when I thought about it yesterday, I came up with the conclusion that there must be a creative writing class in Heaven. (I hope there is anyhow.) And each angel is probably given an assignment to write a love story, a romance novel to suit.

We are the characters.

creativity comes in barrels up there. That is most certainly why no two stories have ever been alike.

That is also why when you witness what appears to be a complex and heart-wrenching unfolding (equipped with the pride & prejudice soundtrack), you can guess that a female angel was the mastermind behind it all. And conversely, when a very methodical and user-friendly arrangement is made between a couple, in which the wedding conveniently falls after college basketball season, you can almost be assured that the author was a sir. Ahhhh, the perpetuating of gender stereo-types :)

That leaves me only one real question.

What the bismark happened to my angel?! !! Naturally, she is procrastinating … not very unlike her fictional character elizabeth leigh perry.

My angel will write her story the night before it’s due, but with all the abstract passion she can muster at 2 a.m. God is merciful with the mid-term grades, yeah?

Or maybe she has been writing all along. Brainstorming little bits of dialogue and plot line, then scribbling them down on restaurant napkins and misplaced, yellow legal pads.

Yes, I think that must be it. My angel and I would be friends. Cause she too is convinced that living must not be halted by the fact that her sunday school room doesn’t read “young marrieds.” Let it be known that she is quite proud of the single support group her church offers as an alternative. And she finds it not the least bit degrading that her leaders continually make efforts at turning bible study into date-nights. Rumor has it that the singles room serves better pastries anyhow.

I’ve really said too much.

and then there were two toothbrushes

2008-10-12T17:01:00.000-07:00

i know this girl who just moved into town, well, into my room.

we have the same mom and dad, and wore matching dresses on the major holidays -- that makes us sisters.

we see the same beauty and light, and borrow each others dresses when we go to indie shows -- that makes us friends.

if i could be honest, i think she might have gotten most of the "star genes." the brilliant kind. energy. laughter. passion. heart. and fierceness. the boys have lined up for blocks. though more than a few have been sent home by our family bouncer (rex perry, of course).

anyway, its got me thinking over the past few days. when someone moves into your room, you've got to pick up a bit. you realize you can't just leave your dirty coffee mugs everywhere. and you might start to think about buying a few shelves for all those books that are stacked up on the floor. and if they start to sneeze from the dust, you've got to do something about that too. you must buy pledge to save the day -- or at least save a pair of lungs.

clean. purge. fight. confess. clean. pray. rinse. offer. clean. sweat. see.

after you've cleaned up just one day's worth of mess (for the sake of community) you wonder. you wonder if life before, in all of its privacy, was ever very livable at all.

that's why its good when someone moves into your room or into your cubicle or into your heart. they make rhyme from chaos. or sometimes they make more chaos. but at least it's the redeemable, relational kind that brings heaven to earth.

a few blogs back (cross referencing blogs? is this legal in the handbook of all things online journaling?) a few blogs back i referenced "making my bed" in a metaphorical to-do list. not uncommonly, i underestimated God. he thought a spring cleaning was fit for the month of october.

living in community has been for me a sacramental reminder. two toothbrushes in the morning. i live not for myself. but for jesus and his friends. joanna and gertrude and jonathan and virginia and the church, for generations of people who will come after me but will not know my name.

after all, we don't make messes in solitude.

the rhetoric of silence

2008-10-05T18:05:00.000-07:00

your mom is on facebook

2008-10-02T15:52:00.001-07:00

i was told yesterday that i have the blandest facebook in the world ... so i feel i must address the rumor. it is one hundred percent true. :)

but, i'm certain, like most things, that the way (or medium) in which someone chooses to network socially is merely a preference. like the way some prefer cream and sugar in their coffee, while others prefer coffee black. both are perfectly fine. a matter of taste. and at the end of the day, both persons will be called coffee drinkers, lovers of joe.

i don't know why i suck at facebook or why it repulses me to think of adding sugar to my morning beverage.

but this is what i do know. one day, soon, i want to meet you.

and i want to see the expression on your face the first time we discover we love the same band because their live shows kick it. and i want to you to watch my eyes get bigger the first time you tell me about a quote that seems to sum up your existence -- or at least makes your heart beat faster. and i want us to fight about why Juno is or isn't one of the most brilliant shows in our collection. i want to search for your interests the way someone searches for their missing shoe, when it happens to be their oldest and favorite pair. i want you to know who my favorite authors are because we roamed barnes and noble for an hour that one sunday afternoon in october. i want to break all the social boundaries and discuss religion, politics and sex in one sitting -- and if i try to sum it up in three words Christian, moderate, single i want you laugh first, and then kindly reply, "please unpack that for me." i want to know and be known. just not in the way everyone expects. cause dang it, i like my coffee black.

that's just a metaphor, i really do like hazlenut creamer. which you'll find out one day

maybe. cause what i didn't mention was that ...

my heart is so shy.

but seriously, your mom IS on facebook.

the whitest high tops come by way of skinny jeans

2008-09-28T15:29:00.000-07:00

people on pilgrimage.

maybe all at different places on the journey. maybe all at the exact same spot in the journey -- wondering at death's death.

and though we may all be on the same trajectory, there are only a handful of people that i feel like were meant to always walk beside me ... held up at the same stop lights, distracted by the same street vendors, looking desperately for public transportation on the same corners.

we were found, these dear friends, in a place outside of the mainstream. beyond dennison drive. because we accidentally set our GPS for "bike trail" and could not figure why it was taking three hours to reach a starbucks only three miles away. (true story)

anyway, i desperately LOVE and respect these friends, with all their different virtues and vices. sometimes i just hope they know how much. we've been growing up and i see more than ever how God has been glorifying their virtues and redeeming any vices in a gentle but powerful way. i realize i've forgotten to tell them this very thing amidst my talk of failing economies, and masters courses and pleasant weather... you know, sections of the paper that really matter in the eschatological scheme of being.

i should tell them. maybe i will call them up. oh yes, i forgot to mention that these friends are perfectly sprinkled all over the world now, the way one adorns a cupcake. in kansas city and uganda, in bloomington and costa rica, in chicago and denver, on the east coast ...

being that i am now in a new city, i am quite alone. really very alone. therefore, as i've been walking i find myself often looking down, at my feet. i study my shoes and observe my movements because i see no need to to talk with the strangers around me. it's a state self-awareness that i didn't intend to reach.

and with that, the realization that my tennies are overly worn in, fairly dirty and my soles(soul) broken.

i just don't know if new friends, the southern type will want me this way. i don't know if they set their GPS on bike trail or if they make it beyond dennison drive/ west end avenue. i look around and their high tops are outstandingly white, like the way west coast boys where them over skinny jeans. i look around and their beds are made. their spouses are picked. and their tours are booked.

still, i realize that we're all just wondering at death's death.

therefore, i remain thankful for the friends who were and are and will soon be. and the angels who entertain in the meantime.

traffic jams + nursing bras

2008-09-21T20:57:00.001-07:00

i haven't put up a song on here before. but this is my small tribute to the people who continually show me what righteous romance might look like. it's still in write/re-write ... especially since i've yet to experience the phenomena of falling or rather the married life that comes after you've hit.

homely superman
working 9 to 5
wearing your mis-matched suit
and that same old crooked tie

city traffic jam means
you're stuck in your car
but you always call me up
right after NPR

and i don't know, i don't know what youth dream of
probably some kind of super sexy love
but i'll see contentment when he's on my couch
besides, he's still chasing me around the house

bought a mini-van
like we never dreamed we would
traded lace for nursing bras
but he still says i turn him on

and i don't know, i don't know what youth dream of
probably some kind of super sexy love
but in the end i chose the man who keeps his vows
besides, he's still chasing me around the house

we've sure seen better, and we've sure seen worse
but God's making our last days better than our first ...
keep us from drifting and keep us from doubts
and if you think of it Lord,
keep him chasing me around the house

garnishes and gods

2008-09-16T19:09:00.000-07:00

the past day has been quite a doosey. a kick in the shins, if you will. something like a painfully long movie during an awkward date.

it began with some news from my boss (job security?) and only got better from there. but despite the chaos, i'm finding joy in the small things of life right now. you know, the garnishes. the bit of lime in my coke.

like today, i was at a college fair with 1500 high schoolers who had never heard the word "Trevecca" much less knew it was an academic institution where one can live and study and make friends. but still, i learned

1. That the more times you use the word "rad," the more street credibility you have with the 17 year old hipsters

ex: Trevecca's engineering program is so rad, you can totally hang with the profs and like learn bout' you know,
nasty awesome machines.

2. That although TNU doesn't offer "professional piercing" as a field of study, there may be a strong need to implement this major in the future at the request of students

3. That in some ways we are all still a bunch of high schoolers at heart, wearing our standard uniforms, traveling in self-protective packs, and trying to "appear" interested in the informational pamphlets of life... But, the truth is, while we pretend to read the small print, we're all really just looking at the pictures.

and speaking of, that's why billboards are so intrusive and gaudy ... and perfectly effective! every day i pass this certain one which displays a lime next to an alcoholic beverage. the billboard says something about how the two were made for each other. questionable. i think that's a bit discriminatory myself. why, limes are also useful for pies and salsa and coke!

and so for the sake of keeping my blog g-rated (hi mom), i'll refer to a tamer beverage for this already nonsensical metaphor.

you see, i'm convinced that every time i insist on adding a lime to my coke, i become an ounce less affected by its flavor. where once i used to add only one slice, now i find myself asking for an entire bowl of lime -- ships of them!

no longer am a satisfied by a faint citrus taste. and gone are the days when i asked for lime with my coke. the appropriate question has instead become: "may i have a little coke with my lime?"

(this is getting long. superfulous. stick with me.)

the point is, when i indulge in my selfish nature and seek only to satisfy myself, even "good" things can become idols. and idols will always leave a bad taste in your mouth. spiritual highs. money. security. piety. jealousy.

slavery, all of it. because garnishes were never meant to satisfy within themselves. garnishes are false gods when we let them be.

what am i addicted to? what am i putting in my life to fill the void of the real thing, the real One?

as trevor hall so profoundly puts it, "it took a while for you to find me, cause i was hiding in the lime tree."

The Geneva Experiment

2008-09-10T11:19:00.000-07:00

wasn't the world supposed to end yesterday? cause i totally forgot to make my bed, fall in love, and see sigur ros in concert. dang it.

(pause.)(consider.) (sigh.)(smile.) the world didn't end yesterday. and Sir Morning sluggishly called "here" when roll was taken.

so, the excuses are void.

to do list:

Angles

2008-09-01T13:17:00.001-07:00

When I look out my office window, if I position myself just right, i see a lovely green pine tree.

When I look out my office window, if I position myself just right, i can't see that the rest of the said tree is brown and dead.

When I lok out my office window, if I position myself just right, I can almost ignore the miniature powerplant behind my dying tree friend.

Life is about the angles and the ignorance.

(?)

Not a bit true. But maybe we could learn to love a thing for what it really is. The full picture. The entire scope.

Then, the homely would become beautiful.

Of course, charlie brown would agree ... he knew a good tree when he saw one.

I'll trade you my panini for your paragraph.

2008-08-20T10:28:00.000-07:00

Cheese, I know.

But, that only furthers my point ... you can put cheese on a sandwich or in a paragraph.

I sort of hope no one (but those dear) ever find this. Can I say that when I have knowingly created a "diary" of sorts on the world wide web? Hmmmm. Yes, I think so.

Well, journal. Here I am. It's after twelve and I've retreated to my office during lunch break. That's when I'll be seeing you, I guess. At lunch. Really it's the only part of my day that is mine. One fine hour to find the local panera and stuff myself in caloric ecstacy. One fine hour to sit on a park bench, feel the grass under my feet, and remember I am human today. One hour to reprimand myself into returning to work for the afternoon.

But, I've found, that in this one lunch hour of perceived "being," I am left a bit hungry. Seems writing might be for me a sort of guilty pleasure, a second piece of cheesecake, yeah?

And to that end, why, if a girl has found the dessert tray, should she have to go around eating meatloaf from 9 to 5 everyday? Because meatloaf pays for her car insurance. Maybe she'll get darn good at meatloaf anyway.

lunch break is up.